What Did I Do For Love?
by CelticWolfman
Summary: Post "Truth or Consequences". Tony's left thinking about what's happened in his life this summer over a drink. Wondering where the answers are and if there are any when he's joined by a friend.
1. Chapter 1

What did I do for love? Oh, the question. Let's see. Looking back, I confronted a Mossad agent. And not just any Mossad agent. I confronted a Kidon agent, a trained assassin. Sure, maybe he was drunk at the time. Sure, maybe I figured I'd be able to confront him in front of Ziva. Restrain the Israeli tiger, play him like the left bower on an off suit Ace. I didn't know he'd be there alone and I sure as hell didn't back down. Say what you want. Call me a spoiled kid, but you don't survive any time in Philly or Baltimore without having a little bit of the bulldog in you. When I tossed the cuffs at Rivkin, I meant it. I wanted to do it civil. I didn't want to put four in his chest. But I would have died if I didn't.

Then what did I do? Well, after I killed her boyfriend, I confronted her in Israel. Told her exactly what happened. I wasn't proud to shout at her. I would have drunk myself stupid for it that night. But the doctor told me no drinking with the pain killers for my broken radius and I couldn't find a decent bar in Tel Aviv. Watching her stand on the tarmac in Tel Aviv, I felt like Rick at the end of Casablanca. Like I should have roped my right arm around Gibbs and said, "You know, Leroy, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." The boss would have smacked me good for that one. He would have gotten a good laugh out of that one, probably even gotten a decent laugh out of that.

That was the longest flight of my life. Fifteen hours sitting across from the Director and Gibbs on a C-9 out of Tel Aviv. A canvas seat giving me hemorrhoids and those two burning holes in my morale. Nothing quite like having your loyalty, competency and objectivity questioned by the only people that matter to you. I'll give the boss man credit, I don't really believe he ever doubted me. Gibbs doesn't doubt. He deals in black and white. There's no gray. Not in his world anyway.

But man, oh man, heading back to the States on that C-9, I was begging for a little Dooley Wilson. I wanted to hear Sam play it one more time. Just as we left her on the tarmac, just for me and her. What did I do for love? The answer, like a fool I went back. Yeah, it took some time. Yeah, I tried to move on. But I couldn't. After a few minutes, I wanted that gaze. I wanted to hear a mangled version of a common English idiom or I wanted to hear a reference to my chauvinism or her kinky attitudes. Sow what did I do for love? I left. I left for Northern Africa. Just like Ilsa. Yeah, maybe Ziva's playing Rick in this role. Nah, that doesn't work.

I'm too well dressed. McGee's too Sam, the boss too Renault to make Ziva anything but Ilsa. Maybe the boss would rather be Rick. I'm sure he would. The idea of being as mercenary as Renault would probably make Gibbs sick, but he'd appreciate the humour, even if the French don't drink bourbon. I quarterbacked the whole thing. Sure the boss caught the long ball with the Director. But I organized Abby, the Probie, even Ducky on this one. I got us in, I put up with the poison, put up with the torture, suffered the inquisition. Put myself through it, all of it, to bring back a woman I wasn't even sure was still alive.

I knew she was alive. I just did. I could feel it. If she'd died, I would have felt that. Ziva's like a propane flame. Not a natural fire. Typical love is a natural fire. Burns yellow, even orange. It gets put out with water or a lack of oxygen. Ziva doesn't. As long as there's a propane supply, the flame burns blue. You know when that kind of fire gets put out. When the fuel gets cut off. That's the only way the fire dies. What did I do for love? Everything.

Everything I could and still live through it. I came within minutes of coughing up blood and spitting out my teeth. Because I knew she was still alive. I knew McGee would back me up. I knew the boss would back me up. Even the toothpick, duplicitous as he sometimes is, wouldn't miss the opportunity to hold a trump card over Eli David's head. He just wants to be holding the biggest card. Ziva alive to him is worth more than Ziva dead. Ziva alive to me is worth everything. I even told her I couldn't live without her.

Seeing her sitting opposite, beaten and defeated, wasn't Ziva. The real bitch was knowing that it wasn't Saleem but her Father that had done that to her. The Ziva I know, no Saleem couldn't break her if he wanted to. But Eli David, yeah he has access to the emotional pressure points. He's callous enough to use them, too. Even on his own daughter. One of these days, I hope he comes to D.C. I really do. And I hope Gibbs gives me the interrogation room alone. Just me, him and a nine mill. No cameras, no microphones, I'll even give Gibbs the bullets. Actually, I want a .357. Do it Dirty Harry style. Empty chamber, but squeeze the trigger six times. Never letting him know there are no bullets. Letting him feel the same kind of tenuous existence he made Ziva feel all those lonely months in Somalia. His life hanging as hers did, on one man's mood.

"Another one?" The young female bartender looks over the slab of granite at me. I avoid her gaze staring down at the empty cocktail glass in front of me. I grin and give her my best Connery.

"Absolute Martini, shaken not stirred with a lemon peel." I slide the coaster over the granite. Her hazel eyes stare back at me and she grants me the littlest cock eyed smile before grazing her fingers delicately over the cocktail glass and mixing the drink.

"We call that the Daniel Craig around here." She scoops ice into the shaker.

"Blasphemy." I feel like I should reach for a Marlboro or maybe a Benson and Hedges right now. Stick it between my lips and pull a zippo from my breast pocket. "Connery is the only real Bond." She laughs, that kind of girlish laugh. You know the one. Impish but not. Just immature enough that says she's looking for an older guy, just sophisticated enough to placate the college guys. She slides the cocktail glass back over the granite. She wants to know if I'm in the mood. How you hold a drink, a good drink, tells a lot about you. To strong and you're too desperate. Too limp and you lack that control that kind of control they want you to have. Control and stamina, taken as synonyms in the right context. The lemon taints the Vodka. Gives it taste. You can drink six or seven without tasting the alcohol. But the vodka is why you can shake it. Ducky taught me a long time ago that you never, ever, shake gin.

"What's got you drinking?" She asks. This is a class joint. The female bartenders are dressed to impress. The button down white blouses and black pencil skirts. This one, the top three buttons are undone. I'm catching a hint of white lace. She's game. And maybe eight months ago, I would be, too. I'd smile the right way, wink appropriately, flash her the badge, tell her about rescuing a missing kid and let her fall like low hanging fruit. But every time I close my eyes I see Ziva. Beaten and defeated, those normally passion clouded dark eyes subdued by reality. I probably could have frayed the rope that day, jumped Saleem and strangled him with my bare hands. But Gibbs' rifle was a better, more theatrical touch. Omniscience is more intimidating that invincibility anyway.

"A woman." A grizzled and familiar voice pulls up on the bar stool next to me. "Old Granddad, neat." He directs and she nods uniformly, reaching for the bottle.

"And for a second, boss, I figured you wouldn't find me." I joke as I sip at the glass.

"Almost nine years, Probie." The boss jokes. He hasn't called me that in eight years. "You should know better by now." She slides a tumbler across the granite in front of Gibbs. I've always wondered why he doesn't call me Probie more. Franks does it to him, I do it to McGee, McGee did it to Lee. It's followed by a warm smack upside the head. Always brings a half smile to my face now. "Rule 12."

"Only warns against dating a co-worker. That part I've followed." I finally look over my left shoulder at the steely blue gaze.

He laughs. A Gibbs laugh. The kind that precedes another rule or a life lesson. "Stuff never tastes the same without the Mason jar." He looks down at the Bourbon in his right hand.

"That's because it hasn't sat next to paint thinner for six months." I comment, raising the cocktail glass to my lips.

"You got a case of smart ass today, DiNozzo?" He purses his lips and leans his elbows on the bar.

"Third martini, boss." I reply smartly, awaiting another smack.

"What did you expect, DiNozzo?" He takes another drink. "That she'd be so grateful for your effort that she'd fall into your arms?"

"I don't know, boss." I grin at the lemon peel, now levitating over the remaining vodka and vermouth. "That was the one part I didn't think about ahead of time."


	2. Reunion

I walk into the bar again. Another Friday night under my belt. So many good movie scenes take place in bars. Once again I come back to Casablanca. Is there a more seminal movie bar than Rick's Cafe Americain? You walk in and hear Dooley Wilson singing _Knock on Wood_. Yvonne sitting at the bar, Sasha coming on to her relentlessly as our desperate lost soul waits for some acknowledgment from the ever present Rick. Karl the waiter bounces around, quipping about his boss, keeping tabs on who's winning and who's losing at the roulette tables in the back room.

This place is a bit like Rick's. There's a piano player in a black suit, looks to be Ralph Lauren. He spends most of the night tucked in behind a black Steinway baby grand churning out some of the old standards. The floors are hardwood, the bar is made out of cherry wood with a granite top. There's a brass railing and the draft beer comes out of brass taps. On the wall behind the bar, hanging over the bottles is a picture of Sinatra, his fedora perched loosely on his head and a single Lucky dangling between his index and middle finger.

Oh but there are some great bar scenes in the movies. Pretty much all of "Cocktail" counts. "Lost in Translation", just thinking of Scarlett Johansson. She's pretty much able to single-handedly put any movie on a guy's Top Ten list. Any of the bars from "Swingers", probably the seminal bar movie of the nineties. Speaking of Frank, the way I was just a second ago, "Robin and the Seven Hoods", great Sinatra bar movie. Sammy Davis Jr. singing _Bang! Bang!_ As he blasts bottles away standing at the cleared out bar. Or Frank and Dino lecturing Bing Crosby on how to dress like a real man while they sing _Style_.

Ah the art of dressing with class. A lost art. Well, for men anyway. I undo the buttons on my jacket and saddle up to the bar. "Tony." The bartender smiles at me as she spins a coaster along the granite. It stops perfectly at my fingertips.

"Hey, Callie." I smile as I play with the coaster. I'm a regular here now. I pop in Friday after work. I listen to the piano player for a few hours, hoist a couple martinis, smile at a few of the yuppie single ladies that come in. Nothing too serious, just enough to keep my skill sharp. Then there's Callie. Her real name is California Jones, I kid you not. Just over five-foot-six and probably close to exactly a hundred and twenty pounds. Full lips, great hips and so much in between, including a strawberry blonde ponytail. She's got a raspy, husky kind of Diana Krall like voice. Everything I would want.....two years ago.

"Absolute martini, shaken not stirred, with a lemon peel." She chimes in her seductive alto. "Wrap up a big case?" She starts polishing a different cocktail glass.

"They're all big cases, as my boss likes to say." I mutter a reply and run my finger around the rim of the cocktail glass.

"He was the one in here with you a few weeks ago, right? The salt and pepper hair, Paul Newman disposition and Old Granddad neat." She smiles, leaning her right elbow on the counter top behind her.

"Leroy Jethro Gibbs, former Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine Corps. The one and only." I answer with an affirming nod.

"Kind of cute." She sticks out her lower lip appreciatively.

"I've heard Gibbs called a lot of things, cute doesn't even make the top one hundred." I joke as I take a sip of my drink. "I mostly just call him Boss."

"He single?" She asks.

"Not sure that strawberry blonde is close enough to red for his taste." I joke. "Boss has a thing for redheads."

"Little old for me anyway." She smirks and sets the cocktail glass down. "You still hung up on that girl?" I sit silent, staring down at my drink. Am I still hung up on Ziva? How do you ever know when you're hung up on someone? In my case, it's probably easier than most. Ziva would probably say that the fact that I don't chase every skirt like a hyperactive bloodhound any more is probably a good indication.

A good bar should always have music. And the music should always fit the bar. Jeff Healey and his steel guitar, the perfect music for "Road House". A movie that is, by the way, the best bouncer movie of all time. I don't know what Callie meant by Gibbs' Paul Newman thing, he's always kind of been more of a Sam Elliot to me. While we're on the subject of Road House. Then of course there's the one I keep coming back to, Dooley Wilson as Sam, pounding out torch songs on that old upright at the Cafe Americain.

Rick was hung up on a girl. But what man wouldn't have been hung up on Ingrid Bergman in the 1940s? Drinking gin, sitting at a bar, listening to the same old song over and over again trying not to think about her. Who does that? I take a sharp inhale and cast a glance down at the cocktail glass at my fingertips. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge old Rick.

Then there's the kiss. It wasn't a real kiss. You know a real kiss when you get one. Almost feels like it sucks the adrenaline right up out of your back. For a guy I know that if it's done properly, it's addictive as hell. Like when a cigarette is almost down to the filter and every inhale feels like it's going to light your lips on fire. I could probably do a solid few hours on the great movie kisses. Everyone probably has their favourite. I stare down at the vodka in the glass. A good martini is always cold the best bartenders can almost create a fog on the outside of the glass. To the naked eye, it makes the vodka appear cloudy, one of the great simple visual effects.

It wasn't the first time Ziva kissed me. Nah, I can remember our undercover mission. Those weren't real kisses either, just very good imitations. A trained eye like mine can tell the difference. I'm the kind of guy appreciates the small things about a kiss. Like when a girl reaches back and grabs the short hair on the back of your head. Or that little ridge some girls get on their bottom lip from biting down on it too much. It catches you on the way out, letting her taste linger, like a fine martini just burning your lips for that extra second. The lemon peel now sits at the bottom of the glass almost taunting me. As much as the vodka might burn a little bit going down, the burn of Ziva's lips on my cheek is still a little more potent.

"Man, you got it bad, huh?" Callie comments as she leans, semi-seductively on the brass taps.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I put on my best bravado, even staring at her chest to amplify the effect.

"Come on, the thousand yard stare into the bottom of a cocktail glass? I've been a bartender too long not to know what that means." She laughs lightly as she plucks the glass out from in front of me. "You're a romantic, Tony, don't fight it. What's her name?"

"How do you know I'm not just considering taking you home?" I toy, my machismo working a little overtime on this one.

She smiles and stops polishing a whiskey runs her tongue lightly over her cotton candy pink lip gloss and leans over the bar on her elbows. I'm trying hard not to just stare down the front of her blouse as her breasts rest on the granite of the bar. Maybe I pushed the flirting a little too far here. I really wasn't expecting her to challenge me. "Any time, anywhere, stud." She breathes in that husky contralto and I have to gulp.

"Tony?" I hear from the reception area and I look over my left shoulder to see one of my co-workers standing there.

"Probie?" I peak a curious eyebrow at McGee who walks over to the bar. He slides in along the bar next to me. "What are you doing here?"

"I was, uh, working late filling in for a sick technical worker in MTAC and on my way home I figured I'd stop in for a drink." Probie shrugs at me but I'm not convinced this is entirely a coincidence.

"So, Gibbs didn't tell you that I'd be here?" I question.

"What does the boss have to do with this?" McGee's mouth narrows and his eyes kind of bug out. Okay, now I know he's telling the truth. I hear Callie clear her throat and I snap back to reality.

"Right, sorry." I shake my head. "Probie, this is Callie. Callie, this is Special Agent McGee, my sidekick."

"Tony, we talked about this, I'm not your sidekick." McGee protests.

"Come on, McGee, don't fight it." I'm joking with him. "Callie, I'll let you decide. The less attractive one is always the sidekick. Who's more attractive?"

She shakes her head at the two of us and laughs. "I'm not getting in the middle, boys."

"Normally I'd say we were a comedic team, McGee. Like Martin and Lewis, but that doesn't work. Because if you're the straight man, that makes you Dino and let's face it, McGee, I'm clearly more Dino than you." I joke again and McGee shakes his head.

Callie laughs. "What can I get you, Agent McGee?"

"Uh...a Mojito, please." McGee is hesitant and I wave Callie off.

"Come on, McGooberry Pie. If you're going to drink with me, you have to order something less...girly." I mock scold.

"Well, then what should I...?" McGee shrugs his shoulders.

"Get him a whiskey sour, Callie." I nod to the bartender and she nods to me. I look over at McGee who looks slightly puzzle at my selection. I relent. "On me." I add. She mixes up another vodka martini for me and squeezes a fresh Wiser's whiskey sour for McGee. She spins the drinks down the granite and they pause right in front of us.

"How does she...?" Probie is once again confused, this time by Callie's elite bartending skill.

"How does Gibbs know what we're saying when he's not in the room, Probie? The answer is a mystery of the universe. Like why it always rains right after you wash your car." I start into my second drink.

There's a pause. A heavy silence that passes between me and my Probie partner. He takes a drink and taps idly on the glass with his thumbs. "So, Ziva's back."


	3. The Inside Man

_A/N: Alright folks, I had a terrible Halloween, so I'm expecting you all to come through big time with the reviews on this chapter, okay? I'll even add a sneak peek for the next chapter to sweeten the deal. _

Dogs. You always hate dogs when you're on a case. It's only fair, after all the dogs always seem to hate you. It's like pooches hold cops one level higher than postal employees. Probably the one thing that they share in common with criminals, respect for the gun. We carry them, mailmen don't. Although after getting chewed out by Abby the last time he shot at a dog, I doubt highly that McGee's going to be shooting at another dog for awhile. I wonder what happened to his dog. We never see Jethro any more. You wouldn't that a guy who owns a dog, especially a German Shepherd would be afraid of guard dogs still. But this is the McGoo we're talking about.

"Turner and Hooch" and "K-9" a couple great dog movies. But great dog movies are rare, they're almost always just great kid movies with dogs in them. Or great dog movies are simply never just great dog movies. "Lassie" and "Old Yeller" are exceptions of course. But name one to come out of recent Hollywood? Can't really do it. They're kids movies with dogs. Except one, "The Sandlot". I know, kids movie, right? Not really. It's a movie about kids, the same way an early Springsteen song like "Spirits in the Night"or "Blinded by the Light" is technically about teenagers. We all had the one dog in the neighbourhood who kept us from climbing a particular fence. We all had the one kid in the neighbourhood who was better than we were at every sport. Then at the end, when that big English Mastiff chases Benny wearing his PF Flyers through the neighbourhood. Except in my neighbourhood they were Chuck Taylors.

Besides, any movie that quotes the scene from "Cool Hand Luke" where Dragline's sweet Lucille is washing the car can't be all that innocent. "She don't know what she's doing"? Oh yeah, my friend she knows. They always know. Speaking of the ones who always know. I slide in a long the cherry wood of the bar and Callie is bent over, digging out a bottle of J&B from the bottom shelf. "Be with you in a second, Tony." I hear that contralto sing from inside the cabinet as I try and focus on anything but her heart shaped...

"Agent DiNozzo." I hear a familiar baritone over my left shoulder. I almost expect microscopic wood chips to start flying at me.

" Director." I gulp, still captivated by Callie's exquisite...

"Let me buy you a drink." He sits next to me.

"You always seem so eager to get home, sir." I try and stay professional.

"Wife is at her mother's. Took the kids with her." The toothpick saddles himself into a chair.

"Hey, Leon, what can I get for you?" Callie pops up and looks at the two of us.

"Leon?" The question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Sorry, Director Vance."

"He's your boss?" Callie looks at me. "He's been coming in here since the start of the summer. Reliable as you, except he's usually in on Tuesday nights."

"Thank you, Callie." Vance eyes the two of us like he suspects something.

"Jameson's 18 and an Absolute Martini with a lemon peel. Coming right up." She flips a tumbler and a martini glass down from the racks above her head. Placing them next to each other on the bar, she pulled the cork top out of the whisky bottle. Is there a sweeter, more soulful, more simple and complete sound than the sound of cork being pulled out of a whisky bottle. The whole production of creating a whisky, any whisky, on the rocks is almost orchestral. Like John Williams himself had taken time away from the Indiana Jones soundtracks to write it. The dull bass of the solid glass of a tumbler striking a coaster; the soprano tremor of ice striking empty glass; then that kind of contralto tickle of whisky cascading into the glass and over the ice. It's kind of like when you hear a beautiful woman speak Italian or French or Spanish and the words just seem to glide off her tongue. I've watched Ziva speak Spanish some times, you watch what her tongue does, the urge to kiss her, "The Fever" as Springsteen once called it, gets worse every time.

"DiNozzo?" The voice of the Director brings me back to reality. "You still with us?"

"Sorry, Director." I shake my head and pull the cocktail glass in on the coaster. "Gibbs tell you I'd be here?"

"No." The Director answered simply.

"I knew McGee would talk." I laugh sarcastically as I take a sip of my drink.

"Beside the point." The Director leans one elbow on the bar and squares his shoulders to face me. "Officer David has resigned from Mossad and applied to be an NCIS Special Agent. Just figured you would want to know, she _was_ your partner."

"Ziva has to go through FLETC?" I laugh, that'll something to see. "We're gonna get pictures of that, right?"

"She still has to be approved by channels and this is gonna be flagged by officials way above my paygrade." The toothpick takes a sip of his Irish whisky.

"And if I' not mistaken, you've got to be a US Citizen to become an NCIS agent." A take a sip myself out of my glass.

"That's the easy part. You'd be amazed what you can expedite in this town if you knock on the right doors." The toothpick polishes off his drink and slides the tumbler back across the granite. He drops a twenty dollar bill on the granite next to the coaster. "Thanks, Callie." He gives a small toothpick grin and turns back toward the reception area.

"So, Leon's your boss, huh?" Callie's polishing a wine glass as she turns to face me.

"You have to stop calling him that." I take a drink. "It's too weird."

"And I'm guessing this Officer Ziva David is the girl I've heard you talk about before?" Callie placed the wine glass in the overhead racks. "What did she do to you?"

"I couldn't tell you if I wanted to?" I toss her a smile and clutch the cocktail glass a little tighter in my hands.

"National Security, huh?" Callie shrugs as she leans over the bar. I love it when she does that, it's an open and aggressive posture. You spend enough time with Gibbs, you learn to read pretty well. Any time you can see down the front of Callie's blouse, you can tell that she's trying to make a point. She's trying to get what information she wants out of you, out of you.

"No, it's just too dramatic, even for me." I laugh, again sarcastically, more an attempt to present a decoy. "Too James Bond in _Die Another Day_, too Arnold in _True Lies_, really one of those things that's too crazy to be true, so it just has to be."

"Sounds like a story I want to hear." She drags each word out over those cotton candy pink lips. It's not quite Ziva speaking Spanish, but it's not like I'm comparing two versions of the same song here. Hell, they're not even the same genre. Ziva is more blatant, more obvious seductive and sultry. Ziva is Latin music, big horns and hard percussion, heat sweat running down your back, seaside cantinas and long summer nights. Callie is kind of the opposite, at least she gives off a decent vibe. Buttons undone on her blouse and all, she's a little more subtle. A little more winter nights, soft piano music and a little double bass. The difference between Salma Hayek in _Desperado_ and Michelle Pfeiffer in _The Fabulous Baker Boys_.

"There you are!" I hear another but slightly different raspy voice cheer and bound over to me. Abby leaps on to my left shoulder and wraps me in a hug.

"You Gibbs would have told where I was." I comment, struggling for breath as Abby hugs me tight.

"Damn straight." Abby smiles as she takes the seat next to me.

"What can I get you?" Callie turns to Abby.

"Vodka gimlet." Abby answers the question with a smile. Callie looks to me and I just nod.

"So are you the one he talks about?" Callie looks over her shoulder at Abby as she mixes the drink.

"I don't know, maybe." Abby plays coy.

"Ziva David?" Callie questions as she strides back over to us.

"No, I'm Abby." Abby shakes Callie's hand.

"She's the favourite." I quip and Abby just smiles at me, a little superiority to her smirk.

"So, he talks about Ziva does he?" Abby's almost taunting now. Reveling in the knowledge that Callie's given her the upper hand.

"Every Friday night when he comes in here." Callie stands in the well and pours a drink to give a server headed for the dining room.

"Really?" Abby quirks an eyebrow at me. Luckily, I've got one card to play in this game.

"I think I saw McGee in here earlier on a date with the polygraph chick with the crazy eyes." I comment, keeping my facial expression stoic.

Abby checks the bar area thoroughly. Then pretends to head off to the ladies room to check the dining room. That should save me through the first two rounds of drinks.

_Sneak Peek: Next chapter, we finally get a scene outside the bar at NCIS HQ._


	4. Good Cop Bad Cop

If I ever smoked, today definitely would have been a day for it. I hate international intrigue. Yeah, it works in Hollywood. It makes for good movies, great characters and excellent film scores. Dean Martin as Matt Helm; Sean Connery, George Lazenby and Pierce Brosnan as James Bond; Robert Redford in _Three Days of the Condor_; Harrison Ford as Jack Ryan. The events of the Damocles, yeah that was like a seedy Ridley Scott epic. The female Mossad agent, her Kidon team, unseamly characters running a tramp steamer off the East African coast. You want to cheer for her, you want to believe she's the good guy. But at the top, the guy writing her orders and cutting her cheques, he's a miserable bastard high on the order of miserable bastards.

Needless to say, my interactions with Mossad haven't been the best. Ari Haswari? I wanted to kill the bastard almost as much as Gibbs did. What I find ironic about him is that for all the hate he directed at his father, he couldn't have ended up more like him if he'd tried. Manipulative, deceitful, self interested, an expert magician though. Capable of incredible misdirection. Michael Rivkin should probably come next. After all, I did shoot him in the chest. All those adjectives I used to describe Ari can probably just be re-hashed here. If I put any faith in psychiatry, I'd say there was something highly Freudian about Ziva's choice of men here. But after Jeanne, I don't like anything associated with doctors.

Mossad's lesser lights leave a slightly less detestable taste in your mouth. I didn't really get to know Officer Amit Hatar. Judging by association, I'm naturally suspicious of anyone who's that close Eli David. But he seemed to be a competent officer, even if he was his boss' favourite attack dog. Then we arrive at the latest Mossad officer to make his appearance, Malachi Ben-Gidon. Eli David manages his staff like a manager does his pitching staff. Hadar is his staff ace, trusted and reliable. Ziva is clearly his closer. Knows when it's a big game, knows the inning, knows the score. Just like Mariano, she always comes through. Ben-Gidon is like the set up man. Put him in for the eighth inning and hope that he can maintain the status quo long enough for the closer to come in and polish off the game.

I catch Ben-Gidon standing in front of the elevator. "Hold the door, Mal!" I shout after him. I can pretty much hear his eyes roll but he'll hold the door because he doesn't want to step on toes in Gibb's domain. He's got a Diet Coke version of Eric Bana in _Munich _thing going on. "Couldn't come down here and do it himself, huh? Had to send you?" I stand next to him and stare at the elevator door.

"The Director has other things to concern himself with." Ben-Gidon, always the loyal officer, toes the party line.

"See, now I've never been a parent, but it would seem to me that the well being of my only remaining child would come in pretty high on the priority list." I pull a Gibbs, reaching forward and flipping the emergency stop switch on the elevator. Then I turn and square up to him, facing his profile. "But based on what we've heard about the Damocles today, leaving people behind is pretty standard behaviour for Mossad."

"Some losses are acceptable." He doesn't want to look me in the eye.

"Only if you're a coward." I fire back.

"My apologies, Agent DiNozzo, I asked what you would do in the same circumstance, but Officer David didn't have a boyfriend around that I could kill." He finally turns to look me in the eye.

"Well, you did kill that only guy on the ship that she kissed. That's close enough I suppose." I shoot back caustically. There's silence for a few seconds. "Here's what I don't understand. See, you don't seem like all that bad a guy. Hell, you might even be the Israeli version of me, but even I'd stop following my boss if he lacked as much integrity as yours did." I watch Ben-Gidon's jaw stiffen.

"Harsh words, Agent DiNozzo." It seems an odd response from Ben-Gidon. I expected his anger to get the better of him but I guess that Mossad stoicism is pervasive.

"Well, what would you call it when a father programs two of his children to be assassins? He plants one inside a major terrorist network. Then after his daughter loses her boyfriend, he guilt trips her into undertaking an incredibly dangerous mission in North Africa. You abandon her, she gets captured and he sends absolutely no one to rescue her." I tilt my head a little to the left. "You're right, I guess I should be calling him the Father of the Year."

"Is there a point to all this sanctimony?" We've hit upon exasperation. Finally I'm getting to Ben-Gidon.

"Yeah, you're passing a message along for Gibbs, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind adding one from me to Director David." I flick that emergency stop switch and the lights come back on.

"I think you've said quite a bit, Agent DiNozzo." He retorts.

"Tell him to fuck off." I grin sarcastically and drive my hand down on his right shoulder causing him to wince hard and I step backward through the elevator doors. "See ya later, Mal." I chuckle and the doors close behind me.

* * *

I step up into the bar again. It's starting to get a little cold in DC. Usually does around this time of year. The wind whips up the Chesapeake, turns any place within half a mile of the Anacostia River into an instant freezer. I pull my leather gloves off my hands and stick them in the pockets of my jacket. Saddling up into my regular seat in front of the cherry wood of the bar. I don't see my favourite strawberry blonde standing behind the bar, that white blouse with the three buttons undone and the black pencil skirt. Instead, there's a large African American man in a red waist coat, white dress shirt and red bow tie behind the bar. I tap my knuckles idly on the granite.

"You've gotta be Tony." The booming bass comes from over his shoulder.

"How'd you...?" I question with a kind of dog-staring-at-a-high-pitched-sound expression.

"Callie said to look for a guy with short dark hair, a designer suit and over-priced shoes." He turns around and throws a towel over his right shoulder. "She said you'd be into an Absolute martini, shaken, lemon peel."

"Normally, she'd be right." I shrug. "But it was a rough one at the office today. Bombay martini, stirred, lemon peel." You never, ever, ever shake gin. It's one of those great lessons ins being a gentleman that Ducky will dispense if you actually listen. "Mr.?"

"They call me Ray." He answers as he pulls the bottle of Bombay Sapphire out from under the Sinatra picture behind the bar.

"So, where's Callie tonight?" I ask as he drops the coaster in front of me and retrieves a stir stick to stir the gin.

"About ready to go on." He finishes stirring the gin and pours the martini. "Our regular piano player, Marco called in with swine flu or some shit. I think he's just got the clap again from spending too much time with the hostess."

I'm startled. Callie wouldn't have volunteered the information that easily. She'd have toyed with it. Hinted about the piano player, used a cat like tone to talk about the waitress. Kept me drinking, inhaling her every word as the night dragged on and on. Ray just got right to the damn point. "So, she's filling in for the piano player? I didn't know she could sing."

"Oh yeah, she's good." Ray sticks out his lower lip, obviously impressed by his co-worker. "Girl takes some old rock songs, slows some of them down, puts a little more jazz, a little Billie Holliday into it. Pretty damn impressive most nights. I'm tellin' you, brother, you should stick around for the show."

Yeah, like I'd go anywhere else. It's a Friday night and my dating life has pretty much flat-lined since Jeanne. But this place, images of smoke dance around like some kind of alcohol mirage. It's like Chinatown or something. Definitely a quality Hitchcock movie, though I can see Soderbergh or Tarantino doing a good scene like this. Maybe Scorsese. I take a sip of the gin and it bites the back of my throat good and hard. Stiff, just like it's supposed to.

"Another road weary traveler, I see." A familiar rolling Scottish accent slides up alongside the bar.. "Had enough of the intrigue of the week as well?"

"Makes me glad I didn't join the CIA, Ducky." I smile as I sip from the cocktail glass.

"As I once told Jethro, you would have made a lousy Agent Provocateur, Anthony." Ducky chuckles to himself. "Still, this whole mess has been hard on her."

"Hasn't exactly been a Central Park stroll for the rest of us Duck." I almost cough as I suck back a little more gin. Now, I know why I stick to the vodka martinis. "Nothing's felt the same since she got back."

"Yes, there has been a kind of uneasiness." Ducky leanson his elbows and looks at Ray. "Macallan 18 if you've got it, with an ice water."

"Oh, I've got it." Ray answers with a toothy smile. Ray reached down and grabs the Macallan bottles from under the counter. The same place that Callie pulled the Jameson's 18 from last week. Obviously, you've gotta know this place carries the good stuff and that you've got to ask for it sight unseen in order to get it.

"You've been a little on edge since your return from East Africa, my boy." Ducky observes as the two glasses land at his fingertips.

"I keep looking around expecting Ziva to stick that truth serum in my neck and all the questions that she was too exhausted to back then and there." I joke and Ducky smiles. "Actually, I keep wondering if she actually trusts me or if she's just telling herself that she does until her next boyfriend comes along."

"Well, for what it's worth, she certainly shown her fair share of jealousy toward you as well." Ducky explains.

"What do you mean?" This is the first I'm hearing of it.

"Well, there was that night a few years back when you were with your old inamorata that you didn't show up when everyone went out for drinks. Ziva and I were discussing your conspicuous absence and when I mentioned that she rather sounded like a woman concerned over a wayward lover, she became quite uncomfortable." Ducky has that fond mentoring smile on his face. Just as I'm about to say something, the bar manager slides in behind the microphone on the piano. "Ladies and Gentlemen, it is our pleasure tonight to bring you the musical stylings of Miss California Jones." There's a small round of applause that I casually join as Callie steps out from the kitchen in a pair of really tall high heels and an awkward blue sequin dress with black spaghetti straps. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a lazy messy ponytail and an errant strand of hair from her bangs hangs down at the corner of her left eye.

"She's a pretty one. But unique." Ducky observes. "Fair skinned, but not typically fair. Pale, rather than alabaster." She trills off a piano introduction as Ducky and I turn our backs to the bar to watch her play piano."Excellent form."

"Yeah." Is the only syllable I can muster. That contralto takes over the microphone, basking it in waves of sound.

_Outside another yellow moon_

_Has punched a hole in the night time mist_

_I climb through the window and down to the street_

_I'm shining like a new dime_

_The downtown trains are full_

_Full of all them little Brooklyn girls_

_They try so hard to break out of their little worlds_

I watch her, I know this song. It's great, every artist kind of brings their own touch to it. Ray was right, she does a kind of Billie Holliday meets Janis Joplin thing. I've never heard Ziva sing, wonder if she's got the chops for songs written like this?

_You wave your hand and they scatter like crows_

_They have nothing that'll ever capture your heart_

_They're just the thorns without the rose_

_Be careful of them in the dark_

_Oh if I was the one you chose to be your only one_

_Oh baby can't you hear me now, can't you hear now?_

Her eyes burst open as she breaks into the chorus. They scan over the crowd in the bar. Only a few people are still looking at the piano. Most have turned back to the conversations at their tables, the loneliness of their drinks or their appetizers. Then she meets mine, holds them for a second. Smiles wide, laughs even before continuing.

_Will I see you tonight_

_On a downtown train_

_Every night, every night is just the same_

_On a downtown train_

_I know your window and I know it's late_

_I know your stairs and your doorway_

_I walk down your street and past your gate_

_I stand by the light of the four way_

_And watch them as they fall_

_They all having their heart attacks_

_They stay at the carnival_

_But they'll never win you back_

She's got that great impish smile. Her fingers dance over the keys. There's always a rising, in tempo. An almost orgasmic rush of intensity as she belts out the chorus through the ivory of the keys.

_Will I see you tonight on a downtown train_

_Every night, every night its just the same_

_You leave me lonely_

_Will I see you tonight on a downtown train_ _A_

_ll my dreams, all my dreams fall like rain_

_On a downtown train_

_Will I see you tonight on a downtown train_

_Every night, every night its just the same_

_Will I see you tonight on a downtown train _

_All my dreams, all my dreams fall like rain_

_On a downtown train_

_On a downtown train_

_All my dreams fall like rain_

_On a downtown train_

She finishes. Ducky and I and a dozen others or so including Ray the bartender give her applause and even a cheer. That was pretty damn good. "She's quite talented."

"Donny!" I hear a familiar voice cheer from the reception area. Ducky and I look over our right shoulders and see Doctor Hampton standing there waiting for him. Gibbs was right, Ducky's only old, not dead. Ducky smiles and turns back to Ray behind the bar. He drops a twenty on the granite.

"That's for mine and Anthony's." Ducky instructs the bartender with a cheery smile before jogging off to join his girlfriend in the dining room. I sit at the bar for a few more hours. Totally captivated by Callie's ability behind the piano. The bar begins to clear out. When there's only a dozen or so patrons left Callie takes a break and joins me over at the bar.

"Another Friday night's worth of pining?" She asks as she comes over.

"Where else would I be?" I challenge. "You were really good."

She smiles at me and tucks the hair back behind her ear. "One of these days, you're gonna have to tell me the story." She goads. She can tell I want to tonight. I've drinking tonight. She can tell that I'll break easily. "I've got an idea." She takes me by the hand and leads me over to the piano bench. She trills another familiar piano intro and starts with that soothing honey contralto. "It's quarter to three, there's no one in the place except you and me."

"And me!" Ray shouts from the bar.

"So, set'em up, Tone." She changes the lyric. "You gotta little story, I really wanna know." She pushes the microphone over to me. It's Sinatra, it's classic, I know this song like the back of my hand.

"We're drinkin' my friend, to the end of a brief episode. So make it one for my baby and one more for the road." I finish and her fingers stop. Taking a deep breath, I start slow. "Alright, it all started in LA..."

**A/N: Reviews feed the bulldog! The kinder you guys are to the bulldog, the more likely it is that we get to see Ziva in the next chapter!**


	5. Code of Conduct

Still hate Halloween. Like I really hate Halloween. The amount of hate I feel for Halloween is surpassed only by the amount of hate I feel for lawyers. Thankfully, for all those concerned, including Gibbs who's normally annoyed enough on Halloween, there were no lawyers involved. There were crazy, adulterous and morally questionable Marines though, which has about the same effect on Gibb's mood as a gaggle of lawyers. So, it's really more six of one, half dozen of another. I haven't dressed up for Halloween since that year I made an Astronaut costume out of my dad's incredibly expensive ski suit. Since then, I've tried to find ways to just dress up as a guy in a suit. I'd go out as Cary Grant in _North by Northwest_, or as Bogey in _The Maltese Falcon _or if I really wanted to stretch it, maybe Gene Kelly in _Singing in the Rain._ I think there was a five year period where I alternated just going out as either Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra. I could sing well enough to pull it off.

I had a genuine fedora back then. But I lost it somewhere between Ohio State and the Philly PD. And I mean a genuine fedora, not a trilby passing itself off as a fedora. After I ran into Ducky here last week, I got to thinking about how much his fedora kicks ass. It really does. It's like the genuine article, probably purchased from some Edinburgh haberdashery during the Blitz. Still made out of beaver pelt, well worn, the original curve has even succumbed a bit at the back. Very Ducky.

When I got to work on Monday, there was a charcoal gray fedora, complete with black hat band, sitting on my desk with a note. _Style among gentlemen – D_. Sliding the hat on to my head, I slouched back into the chair on my desk. I knew what I was going to be for Halloween. The good old days had their good old idols but thanks to one of the great new dramas on cable TV, men's style is making a comeback in a big way. Those of you who've seen it know what I'm talking about. He drinks a little too much, smokes a little too much but he always gets the girl...even when he shouldn't. Don't think I could get Gibbs to dress up as Roger though, so I didn't bother asking. He's got the wit for it when he wants to. The boss is good that way. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this year I went out for Halloween as Don Draper.

I figured I was being original. Come on, who dresses up in a suit for Halloween? I've done it for years, always had to explain my costume. This year, I walk out the door and there's Don Drapers on every damn street corner. College kids. Some of them, oh wow I can't believe I'm going to say this, fifteen years younger than I am. I even bought a pack of Luckys. I don't smoke but I'll finger a few cigarettes idly throughout the night. Maybe even play with the Zippo lighter a few times. The bar is buzzing, there are easily two, maybe three hundred people between the bar and the dining room. They're all dressed rather similar to me. I slide up to the cherry wood and run my hand along the grain. I notice both Ray and sauntering sexy redhead tending bar.

I pull off my fedora and lightly set it on the bar in front of me. The brylcreem makes my hair shine as it pulls it back out of my face. I can't understand how guys back then used to use this stuff on a regular basis. It smells like hell. "Be with you in a second, Mr. Draper." I hear a somewhat familiar voice chime, but it's a few octaves higher than I'm used to. A long, pale arm slides a tumbler of whisky down to the other side of the bar before turning around to face me.

"Miss Holloway." I smile acknowledging Callie's costume.

"Mrs. Harris." She corrects me. "It's season three, remember?" She's dressed to kill on eight different levels of va-va-va-voom. On the show, they say there are two kinds of women, Marilyns and Jackies. A character points out that Joan Holloway isn't a Marilyn; Marilyn is really a Joan. I'd like to take that one step further. Joan is really a Callie. She's highlighted the natural red elements in her hair to make it look red, she's wearing that pink one piece dress that Christina Hendricks wears in all the _Mad Men_ promo material. Her lips are red and plumped up, the dress hugs every hill and valley on her body and she's done her make up so well that the colour in her face makes her skin look more alabaster than pale for once. "So, what can I get you, Mr. Draper?" That husky voice cascades through the thick air over the bar.

"CC Old Fashioned." I order almost seamlessly, pinching a Lucky between my fingers. As long as it's Halloween, I might as well stay in character. It's not my usual vodka martini, but it should be just as good with Callie's skill.

"So, will we be joined by Roger, Harry, Peggy or Bert tonight?" She asked as she leans over the bar. She is, of course, referring to Gibbs, McGee, Abby and Ducky. But it took me a second for that analogy to click.

"Your guess is as good as mine." I smile at her and take the glass in hand. "So, what's with the buzzing party two days after Halloween?"

"An advertising firm in town wanted to have their annual Halloween bash here but since most of them are parents, they were all occupied on Halloween. They scheduled it for today. The boss asked the rest of us to come in costume. So here I am." She raised her hands and gave her hips a little shake.

"In all your glory." I comment with a little cheek.

"You're probably the best Don in the _Mad Men_ themed debacle." She laughs with a kind of flippant wave. "There were a lot of guys in here that should have had a little more humility and gone with another character."

I laugh. She's probably right. I scan the bar. Okay, she's definitely right. At least the show brings a predictable Neapolitan flavour. The blondes are all dressed like Betty, the brunettes like Peggy or Trudy and the redheads, they're trying to be Joan. But with a legitimate Joan like Callie in the bar, they all come off like passive mimics. The piano player is predictably playing _Smoke Gets in Your Eyes_ when I see her walk in. I know that long glide anywhere. Deliberate and slow. Delivered for effect and efficiency. That Lucky I've got in my hand is feeling mighty tempting right now. I stare down at the filter pressed up against the glass in my right hand. "Let me guess, McGee?" I ask, I don't even need to look over my shoulder.

"He did not mean to." He voice rings back in my ear. Same hatred of contractions still firmly in place. "But he never holds out for long."

"It's the McProbeus." I laugh. "He has the same iron spine as a jelly fish."

"He was very helpful to you in North Africa." Ziva counters, she's good at covering McGee's back, I'll give her that.

I nod and raise my left eyebrow in appreciation. "McGee's a good sidekick. Knows the inning, knows the score, always comes through. Clutch hitter."

"I do not understand." Ziva shakes her shoulders in curiosity as she takes the stool next to me.

"It's baseball, Ziva. You've lived here for how long and you've never been to a baseball game?" I take a drink.

"Oh, so you're Ziva." Callie chimes in. Probably because she wants to break the tension but also because caution isn't her strong suit. "What can I get you?"

"Tequila Sunrise." Ziva answers curtly.

"Original or Popular?" Callie fires back.

"Original." Ziva's now squared up to the newly redheaded bartender. "And what did that mean. Oh, so you are Ziva?"

"He talks about you." Callie backs off a bit.

"Well he may talk about me. But he does not talk to me." Ziva counters, squaring up to me again.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I turn to face her.

"It means that since you have been home you have been as cuddly as a laxative." Ziva begins to ramble her counter.

"Laxative?" Callie mouths to me and I wave her off.

"It's cactus, Ziva, that one wasn't even close." I chuckle and sip my old fashioned.

"It is not important, Tony." She waves me off. "You and I were partners, even just last year. And now I might as well have the...the..." I'm really hoping she doesn't say plague. "Pig flu." She finished.

"Swine flu, Ziva." I laugh again. "And that one was better."

"She's fiery."Callie comments, once again trying to break tension.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" Ziva squares up to the bartender again.

"Jones, Callie Jones." My favourite bartender answers. "I'm also Tony's psychiatrist."

"You are seeing a psychiatrist, Tony?" Ziva turns back to me.

"She's joking." I finish my drink, Ziva finally gets hers.

"And what are you supposed to be?" Ziva turns back to Callie.

"We're hosting a Halloween party, my boss told us to dress up. I'm a television character." Callie gives Ziva her own take on the Joan Holloway smile.

"And you, Tony, why are you so dressed up?" Ziva looks back at me. "I thought you hated Halloween?"

"Same party." I quip quickly. "What about you? No want to take part in a great American tradition?"

"Actually, I was considering it." Ziva shrugs as she starts her drink. "But we had a case. I figured that I could dress up as Catwoman, Tony." Her voice drops into that dangerous, husky playful level that I haven't really heard in a few years. I try to think up a response. There's got to be something I can say to the thought of Ziva in a leather cat-suit. As usual, my female counterpart is the first to put thought to word.

"Catwoman, huh?" Callie's polishing a glass. "That would have been pretty hot." That's typical Callie. Knock everyone out of their comfort zone, make them think on their feet.

"Yeah." Is the only word I can think of. Tragically it also decides to escape from my throat.

"Do you think so, Tony?" Ziva's seized on my little admission and now she has the upper hand.

"What?" I cover immediately. "I didn't say anything." I stick a finger into my collar. Damn, it's getting warm in here.

"Oh come on, Tony." Callie admonishes, lightly smacking my left hand with hers. "With her ass, even I'd be turned on by her as Catwoman." Clearly Callie dislikes any other lioness taking the high ground in her jungle. Ziva is stunned. A little blatant bisexuality throws the Mossad Ninja through a loop. Which is odd because Ziva used to love making those little verse when she first got to NCIS.

Ziva finishes her drink. "Why do you not talk to me any more?" She chooses to ignore the vampy bartender.

"Don't have anything to say, I guess." I answer. It's a lie, there's a lot I'd like to say. But it just hasn't been the same since we got back. I guess I'm waiting for a light to flick on and things to just revert back to the way they were. But it doesn't happen that way. Ziva pushes out from the bar.

"When you have something to say, you know where I am." She gently puts a hand on my shoulder before heading back to the front door. When she disappears from sight, I slide my glass across the bar to Callie's fingertips.

"Another one, Mr. Draper?" Callie reverts back to Joan form so easily.

"Set'em up, Joan." I recall our little duet from last week. She mixes me another drink.

"Figures, you know, that you'd fall for a girl like that." Callie tips the bitters into the drink.

"Why's that?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Because she's in love with you." Callie smiles fondly. "She cares about you, like really honestly cares about you. She's exotic and she's got that voice and that ass and long lean back."

"Your type, too, huh?" I laugh.

"Reminds me of a girl I went on a few dates with at NYU." Callie shrugs. "Except there's something different about Ziva, even I noticed it."

I laugh. Something different. Something good. Something bad. If you could even know. That propane flame I once told you about. That's that something. "So, how long have you been...?"

"Bisexual?" She answers. "Since college."

"Not bad." I grin and take a sip of my new drink. I catch the familiar whiff of sawdust and Old Spice so I look over my shoulder. "Hey Boss."

"What the hell did you do to Ziva, DiNozzo?" Gibbs demands.

"Sorry, Boss?" Now I'm really confused.

"She was on auto-pilot walking through the parking lot. She almost knocked me over." Gibbs protested. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. I've even got a witness." I point to Callie, hoping desperately that the red hair and curves will distract the bulldog and thus allow me to continue the rest of my night with my head attached to my shoulders.

"Well?" Gibbs looks to her.

"Honestly, not his fault." Callie answers. "But he tells me you were a Marine."

"Is that right?" Gibbs gives me no-bullshit look that tells me I'm still in the danger zone.

"Not tough to believe, the high and tight haircut, the grim and gruff demeanour, even the cocksure grin and walk. Very sexy." She smiles at him and I swear to God, the boss's cheeks just turned a little red. I may have to buy Callie something really nice for this.

"You're Callie, right?" Gibbs continues and I breathe a sigh of relief. "Don't think this gets you off the hook, DiNozzo. You and I are gonna have a long talk."

"Right. Sorry, Boss." I hang my head.

* * *

It's late, probably close to last call. I've got my arm over the boss's shoulder as he carries me out to his car. "DiNozzo, Rule Forty-Seven. Only go to a bar if you know you can hold your liquor."

"Forgot, Boss." I hang my head as my feet drag along the pavement of the parking lot. "Why are you being so nice, boss?" He reaches into his pocket a pulls out a cocktail napkin with Callie's name and phone number on it.

"You're not a bad wingman, DiNozzo." He grins and takes the napkin back.

"So, where are we going?" I ask, my head lulled back against the passenger seat of his car.

"My house, someone's gotta show you how to get brylcreem out of your hair." He states and guns the engine.

**A/N: A quick update, a little Ziva, a little Gibbs. See what happens when you guys feed the bulldog? A lesson to keep in mind!**


	6. ReRun Week

I try not to stare at her but it's really hard. We're standing here in the boiler room and the door slams shut behind us. Why would the Boss send me down here? He's the fix-it whiz. But then again, he's needed in MTAC. Why wouldn't he send McGee down here, the furnace is probably digitized anyway. Except it's not. NCIS is on the Washington Navy Yard, which has been here since before Lincoln. Which, judging by the pipes, is only about ten years longer than the furnace has been here. There is one tried and true Italian-American method of getting something fixed, which is to take the largest wrench in the vicinity and whack the offending appliance with it until the appliance relents and does what you want it to

It's starting to freeze outside. Which is a pretty stark contrast from what it's like down here in the boiler room. Sweat is trickling down Ziva's forehead. "Tony, can you not get the furnace under control?" She protests wiping the sweat from her upper lip. I try not to stare. That caramel skin, those pastel red on pink lips. The left side of her upper lip hangs down just that millimetre lower, giving her a mischievous expression. But the rest of it is small features.

"What does it look like I've been doing for the last twenty minutes, Ziva?" I wipe sweat off my brow and hang my jacket and tie over a pipe. With the heat down here, my suit will probably be pressed in half an hour flat.

"Hitting the furnace with a wrench." Ziva counters. "How can you be so mechanically incompetent?"

"Listen," I stand, "the only thing I know about furnaces is to check the pilot light. I did. There is one. Other than that I don't know what to do. Don't we have building maintenance for this kind of thing?"

"On strike." Ziva quips simply. She turns away from me, pulling off her top to expose her undershirt. Clearly, the heat is getting to her too. There are those little dimples at the small of her back that trace lines, almost like a highway map down to the elegant, tight rounded curves of her... "I know what you are thinking, Tony."

"Do you?" I challenge as I turn away from the furnace I can hear that wonderful melodic chuckle dance over her shoulder.

"I have always been able to read you like a cook." She spins on heel and folds her arms in front of her chest.

"Like a cook, huh?" I grin. "Then what was I thinking?" I gaze headlong into those gorgeous dark eyes. You're not human if you don't love Ziva's eyes. If you get used to them, you look into them long enough, you know what kind of hurricanes are going through her soul. She tries tough, plays it well, definitely walks the walk. But there are moments, brief, fleeting moments where she gets caught doing her transition into Warrior Princess mode where you get that look of that scared, lost little girl. The one whose sister was killed in a suicide bombing or who spent months as a hostage in Somalia. That woman you just want to get to come in out of the world and into your arms.

Now I'm challenging her again. Standing eye-to-eye. Admiring those small features. Her chin, her nose, her jawline, her lips. Like small strokes on an impressionist canvas. I come in, drop my voice and whisper into here ear. "So, what was I thinking, Ziva?"

She gulps, her breathing quickens. I've never seen the mad Mossad skills thrown like this. "Page 57 again." She tries to add a little assertiveness to her voice.

"You think my creativity is that limited?" I can't help but give her a full-fledged smile. Those eyes, those lips, that skin Come on, Ziva, give me a reason. In the movies, this is where the guy normally pulls off his shirt. And I would but I'm thinking twice here. I'm nervous. It's Ziva, it's me and I don't exactly have a six pack. Ziva and I don't have tender moments. That's not the way it works. If we're going to kiss, ever, it's gonna be angry, it's gonna be because it's the only way I can shut her up, it's gonna be...

"Are you going to do something or not?" She challenges. Not sure if the double entendre is intended or not.

"I'm checking the pipes, Zee-vah." I drag her name out, kind of glad to return to the taunting tone. "It's the only other thing I know to do. Follow the pipes, maybe find an obstruction or a broken valve or something."

"And you did not do that in the first place because?" She puts her hands on her hips. Oh God, her hips.

"Because I forgot, did you really need me to admit it that badly?" I growl at her but it's almost a temptation more than a warning. She's hovering over me now.

"You are a grown man, Tony." She lectures. "Are not most grown men good with their hands?"

"Oh, you think I'm not good with my hands?" I rise out of my crouch position.

"I believe that is what I said, yes." Her chin is up, she's trying to act defiant. It's got to be a hundred degrees in here probably a hundred and ten. I can't take it any more, I'll blame the heat. I put one hand on the back of her neck and the other at the small of her back to bring her in. My lips come crashing down on hers. She digs those fingers into the short hair on the back of my neck. Now this is a kiss. A real kiss. The two of us back up against the door to the boiler room. I move from her lips down to her neck. Her fingernails are digging into my back. I wanna grunt, groan, yell, moan anything but that would require me taking my lips off her. And as Meat Loaf said, I would do anything for love but I won't do that.

"DiNozzo!" I hear Gibbs voice outside the boiler room door. He's pounding on the door. "Hey, DiNozzo!" I feel an odd stirring sensation in my head and my eyes bolt open. I'm at my desk, my feet are up on my desk, I'm leaning back in my chair and the boss is standing over me. "Something you want to share with the class, DiNozzo?" He offers in that sly Gibbs/ Papa Bear kind of way.

"Just a rough night last night, boss." I add with a forced cough for effect. Gibbs searches my eyes for a second before a little grin comes to the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, I've been there." He turns and goes back to his desk. "I'm going to be in MTAC. By the time I come back, the three of you had better have some kind of lead on where Lieutenant Eccleston is."

"On it, boss." McGee chimes after the boss and starts the staccato tapping of his fingers on his keyboard.

"So, Tony, who is the girl?" Ziva leans seductively over her desk.

"Girl?" I play it cool. "What are you talking about?"

"I have known you long enough to know that when you get that goofy smile on your face it can only be about a girl." Ziva's head does that cute little shake it does when she rhymes off a long sentence. "So, who is the girl?"

"She's _the_ girl, Ziva." I'm toying with her. "And that's all I'm gonna say."

"Sound serious." She's being playful or trying to. Her voice carries that little comical, almost mocking tone.

"Speaking of girls, Abby said Gibbs went on a date Monday night." I look to McGee first and he stops typing.

"Explains the good mood all week." McGee shrugs as he stops typing. "Abby even said that he was going back out tonight."

"How does she know these things?" I wonder aloud, giving the other two a chance to answer.

"Two times in one week. He must really like her." Ziva pulls her elbows back off her desk. I pause to think for a second. Yeah, this is just what I need. My boss is now dating my bartender. I'm either gonna have to find a different bar or drink a hell of a lot less when I go out on Friday nights. Neither of which is exactly an appealing option.

"My boss and my bartender, fantastic." I sarcastically shift my eyebrows to effect mock enthusiasm.

"Gibbs is dating Callie from the bar?" Ziva sounds shocked.

"He got her number last week." I shake my head. Ziva laughs.

"I did not think she would be his type." Ziva postulates, her eyes fixed on me. "But she is a redhead."

"Just last week for Halloween. She's usually a strawberry blonde." I comment quickly and Ziva seems to barely process the info before firing back.

"Ah, so she is pulling the old bait and stitch on him." She points her pencil at me.

"Bait and switch." McGee corrects her only to get her evil glare. "It's a buh...buh..bait and switch, Ziva, not bait and stitch."

"It does not matter, McGee." She waves him off and goes back to work. "If Gibbs finds us down here talking about his social life instead of working, he will kill us."

I stop for a second. She's right. I'd better find something on Eccleston before the boss comes back down those stairs. If I don't, I'm cooked. And it's not like I daydream all the time at work. I think daydreams are tacky, they're rarely done properly. Think of a good example of a daydream from a movie? Can you find one that isn't tacky or a distraction from the tone or actual theme of the story? I can think of one and only one, Chevy Chase in _Christmas Vacation_. You know the scene where he's staring out the kitchen window and he sees the lingerie salesgirl come sauntering out of the pool while Bing Crosby croons _Mele Kelikimaka_ in the background. Then she throws the red bathing suit at him. Priceless.

I manage to get a bit of a lead on Lieutenant Eccleston, it's not much but it's what you get when a Lieutenant at Naval Intelligence disappears off the face of the earth and you're not sure whether you're supposed to investigate it as a kidnapping or a UA. I try to keep my eyes glued to the screen in front of me and off Ziva sitting across the squad room. Though the mental images flashing through my mind from that little trip to fantasy land earlier don't exactly make that easy. At 1845 sharp, the Boss lets us secure for the day and go home. We're waiting for some DNA evidence that won't be in until the morning, which is probably the only reason Gibbs has given us this reprieve. We'll all be expected in tomorrow morning, Saturday morning, at 0730 sharp.

Gibbs has a change of shirt and even had McGee find the number for a good florist. I've never seen the boss try to make a good impression before. He's always been more of a 'women either get me or don't' kind of guy. "Where are you headed, Tony?" Ziva asks as we stride over to the elevator.

"The bar, listen to a little music and relax." I punch the button.

"I will come with you." She states nonchalantly.

"Okay..." I'm suspicious. "Why?"

"I wish to spend a little time with you. Maybe we could...talk." She does that thing she does where she meets your eyes for a second before staring into the empty square foot of air right in front of your chest.

"Uh huh." I'm still suspicious.

"Besides, if I get you to drink enough I may learn more about this girl who has you daydreaming." She tosses me a small smile.

"I was not daydreaming." I protest, we stride on to the elevator.

"Liar." She jests with that seductive lilt in her voice. The elevator doors close.


	7. Outlaws and InLaws

It always seems like there's less for the rest of us to do when Mike Franks comes to town. Maybe we did a little more this time. But I've got to admit that I'm not all that fond of being the subject of a private military contractor's vendetta. Although I will admit that watching Mike Franks deal with nightmare in-laws is pretty damn funny. Not that I don't know what that's like. My last girlfriend's mother knew far more about our relationship than I was ever going to be comfortable with. Her father was an international arms dealer who knew that I was lying to his daughter and was an undercover federal agent. Not exactly a recipe for success. But probably par for the course for me.

I've gotten kind of used to someone from the office joining me at the bar on Friday night. Last week when Ziva and I came down here, it wasn't Callie we found behind the bar but Big Ray. Makes sense, it was a Friday night and she was out with Gibbs. So, when I mosey on in to the car today and see the familiar strawberry blonde behind the bar, it's almost a welcomed relief. Not that there's anything wrong with Big Ray, and it's not like I'm any more comfortable with the whole, my boss is dating my bartender thing. It's just that this place is my oasis, my way of getting away from work even if my co-workers do tend to show up.

"Ah, there's our favourite Friday night visitor." Callie cheered from behind the bar. She coordinated her greeting with the simple pluck of a cocktail glass down from the racks over her head. "Boss told me I could give you a Belvedere on the house."

"Good to know loyalty still pays off somewhere in Washington." I joke sarcastically as I belly up to the bar. It should disturb me that I'm sort of becoming the Norm of this particular bar. Not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. I got to thinking about in-laws on the way over. Actually I got to thinking about _It's_ _a Wonderful Life_, one part in particular where George Bailey and Clarence Oddbody are sitting in the watch station on the bridge just after having been pulled out of the water. Clarence tells George that he's his guardian angel, so George turns to Clarence and says "Well, you look about the kind of angel I'd get". He says it with that kind of resignation and defeat. I've kind of thought lately that I'll have that kind of feeling when I meet my future in-laws for the first time. Like I said, last girlfriend was the daughter of the world's biggest arms dealer. Seems like the kind of in-law I'd get.

"You seem a little more down than usual." Callie interrupts my train of thought with her usual caustic grin.

"One of those cases that help put things in perspective." I sip a little of the Belvedere out of the glass. "I'm sure Gibbs will tell you about it some time this weekend. I just don't think I want to re-live it right now."

"Alright, alright." Callie raised her hands into the air. "You seem kind of touchy today."

"Sorry." I shake my head. I know better than to snap at her. "It's just going to take some getting used to."

"Right, this is the first time that you and I have been in here at the same time since Jethro and I started…" Her voice trails off.

"Oh God, you call him Jethro." I shake my head.

"Did you think I called him Gibbs?" She gives a slight giggle of disbelief.

"Sorry, it's just like finding out that your single dad is dating your high school English teacher. It's a bit of a through the looking glass moment." I take another drink and suck a little cool air between my teeth to ease the burn as the vodka slides down. I should be used to it by now but it burns just that little bit each time. Damn it, it should know the proper route by now. That thought brings a little grin to the right corner of my mouth as I stare down at the granite.

Ah, Belvedere. Polish vodka. A little more nip to it then the Swedish stuff I usually catch. This one hits you in the eye teeth. I've heard about Navy Captains betting on bottles of Stoli Kistral but that was probably more popular during the Cold War when it had to be smuggled aboard during visits to friendly ports on Med cruises. Popular ports for that were probably Patras in Greece or Naples. The whole thing seems very Connery in the _Hunt for Red October_ to me.

"Finished?" Callie leans over and lays her fingers gently over the base of the glass.

"How about another?" I seem to have slipped into my best Connery in the mean time.

"Only if you tell me about the case." She chirps back. I roll my eyes.

"You seriously can't just wait and ask Gibbs?" I shoot, probably more sarcastically than I intended.

"I can ask, doesn't mean he'll answer." She tosses a sly smile across the bar.

"That sounds like Gibbs." I laugh a little to myself and she gently sets the drink down on the coaster. "They're not using you behind the piano any more?"

"Once in a while. Normally Saturday nights around 11 or when Marco calls in sick. Some times they'll let me do a set or two before last call on Friday or Sunday. But the boss man is kind of fickle that way." She shrugs. "I've been working on some new stuff, too. Well, not new necessarily just kind of my own take on some songs that I haven't performed before."

"That might be the most I've ever heard you say about yourself." I laugh again.

"I don't usually. But Jethro asks a lot of questions." She's just kind of thinking aloud now. It's not really directed at me.

"Gibbs is a natural interrogator. It's just his nature." I let the vodka slide down and start another fire.

"He doesn't talk about himself very much." Here again she's almost talking to herself.

"That too is just his nature." It's kind of nice to know that there are some things about the Boss that don't change with the company.

"There is the pot calling the kettle black." I know that voice. My eyes pinch shut. "Got it right that time, did I not?"

"Only after mangling it a few dozen times, Ziva." I joke and slide out the stool next to me.

"Hey, Ziva. What can I grab you?" Callie leans over the bar.

"You wish to grab me?" Ziva sounds a little weary and confused.

"Maybe later." Callie laughs. "For now how about a drink?"

"Oh." Ziva's mouth does that cute little thing where her lower lip juts out a little. "Yes, I believe I will have a mojito."

"Coming right up." Callie smiles, gives the granite a quick tap before turning around to mix the drink.

"So, what have you come down here to think about?" Ziva turns her head over her left shoulder and looks into my eyes. It's that expectant kind of look she gave me in the elevator after the war game with Domino last year.

"Just thinking about in-laws." I lean back a bit and intertwine my fingers behind my head.

"In-Laws?" Once again, I seem to have caught Ziva's curiosity.

"Yeah, the In-Laws, Michael Douglas and Albert Brooks movie from a few years back. Actually a remake of a much funnier 1979 movie starring Peter Falk and Alan Arkin." I grin knowing that I've made her roll her eyes.

"I am being serious, Tony." She gives me the Mossad Ninja glare.

"What's he making a joke about now?" Callie comes back over and slides Ziva's drink down the bar, coming to a rest at her fingertips.

"In-laws." Ziva states simply.

"I'm just thinking. We'd have an interesting collection of them at NCIS." I laugh.

"I found Gibbs' father to be very sweet." Ziva protests.

"Jethro has a father?" Callie seems intrigued.

"Jackson Gibbs, very great man." I finish my second drink. "But McGee, well he practically grew up in The Waltons, that's boring."

"You do not talk about your family." Ziva counters.

"My father and his many ex-wives. It's basically a bad sitcom." I shrug and then I laugh. "Actually it's pretty funny."

"What is funny?" Ziva's staring at me now, almost in disbelief that I'm actually talking.

"You don't want to know." I wave her off.

"Yes, I do." She retorts quickly.

"No. You don't." I slide the glass back across the bar. Callie gives me a quick cursory glance as if to test my sobriety before setting to work on another martini.

"Tony, if you do not tell me, I will find some way to extract the information that will not be pleasant for you." There's the Ziva fire I've been trying to encourage lately.

"Alright, but you have to promise not to kill me." I take the cocktail glass from Callie again.

"I promise that I will not kill you." Ziva answers evenly.

"Or torture." I add.

"Fine." She's getting a little annoyed.

"Well, I was just thinking, if you and I ever took leave of our senses and…" I rotate my hand at the wrist to kind of illustrate my point.

"Oh you mean in the event that we were drugged or hypnotized." She laughs.

"Exactly." I snap my fingers. "We'd have some pretty interesting in-law issues. My dad not the least of them. I mean I've met your father, I don't think I made the best first impression."

"That is a safe bet, as you would say." Ziva adds. "But I am not exactly on his Chanukah card list any more."

"Then there's the fact that your brother…" I continue.

"Half brother." She corrects. I sip my drink.

"Killed my partner and sent me and your current boss on a manhunt to track him down." I shake my head. "Reads like a James Bond script a bit." The Connery's coming through again.

"You would not have to worry about Eli in this scenario, Tony." Ziva shakes her head at me "I have a much more imposing father figure."

"Oh yeah?" Now I'm interested. I don't intimidate easily. "Who?"

"Gibbs." Maybe I spoke too soon.


	8. Endgame

This week was a weird one. Somehow that word seems insufficient. I don't know who to feel worse for. I think the last few years; I've let it all build up on myself. Did you know that it was five months before I could look at a picture of Jeanne without hurling my fist into a wall? There may be an element of self-loathing of self-pity or something in my mind. After Jeanne, it was what happened with Jenny. Director Shepard. I just…I should have listened to Ziva. As much as it pains me to say that. I don't know what was going on, I think I was missing something about that whole situation.

I think after that, the last thing I needed was to be removed from the network of people I relied on most. So, I've had a bit of trouble getting next to the idea of Leon Vance as the Director of NCIS ever since. Then when I got back, you could just tell something wasn't quite sitting right with Ziva. It was like watching a couple jungle cats try and recapture each other's scent. I expected it to be a bit like Bond and Moneypenny. I'd walk back into the office, she'd be all business, we'd throw a little sexual banter at each other, consider taking each other to bed and then it would all come down to M. M in our case being Gibbs.

But after seeing this week. Man oh man; I don't think I've got much of a right to bitch. I'm sitting here in the car just staring at the steering column. McGee is sitting next to me. We both know I'm about to say something. That we're about to have one of those fraternal moments. I turn the key and the engine shuts off. "McGee, about what happened with uh…uh…"

"Amanda." That slightly annoyed tone corrects me.

"Amanda, right." I shake my head. I've definitely gotta get better at this.

"Alright, Tony, get it out in the open. Tell me how I should have known better or how I dropped my guard." He's getting frustrated.

"Listen to me." I turn toward him. "What you went through…listen to me…it's shit, it sucks and it happens to everyone." I'm glad I got that out of the way. "If you need someone to talk to, I'll listen without making any wisecracks. I promise."

McGee seems completely shocked. Like completely. His lower lip sticks out, he seems genuinely impressed. "It just, it seemed to work, ya know?" He shakes his head in almost disbelief. "I mean, meeting in the coffee shop, her digging my cell phone out of my pocket…It couldn't have worked more if I'd written it myself."

"I have a feeling you're about to." I crack and McGee goes back to looking annoyed. "Okay, sorry, my fault. Continue."

"It would just figure that the girl, the one that you get the serendipitous meeting with turns out to be a mercenary killer." Tim laughs to himself. "It's just starting to feel like it's never gonna happen, ya know. I'm not like you, Tony; you don't want it to happen."

"Not sure that's true any more." I shake my head and the two of use climb out of the car. We close the doors and lean on the roof of the car facing each other. "You're a good guy, Tim. It'll happen." I punch the remote lock on the doors. "Maybe just pick a different coffee shop next time. Finding the right woman is like getting back in line at a buffet, each time you find something different or new that you like. You just keep going back until you're happy."

"Not everything is about food and movies, Tony." McGee laughs as we walk back into NCIS Headquarters. I step through the front doors to find Ziva standing there with what looks to be the Director, his wife, Gibbs and Callie. I look instantly for some place to retreat to, to hide from them but I know that I've been spotted. I have to walk past them to get back to my desk. I might as well bite the bullet. Maybe not the best phrase when we're talking about a former Marine sniper.

"Hey boss." I stuff my hands in my pockets and pray for the best. If I had a lucky penny, I'd be in the process of rubbing a hole in the middle of it.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs greets me curtly. Not sure that's technically a greeting.

"What's up?" I try not to sound nosy.

"I came here to get Jethro for dinner, I ran into Mrs. Vance here in the lobby and we got to talking." Callie jumps in. Of the people in this crowd, only Ziva and Gibbs have a higher comfort level with me. "We figured we should drag the boys out together." She and Mrs. Vance smile at each other in that kind sweet, knowing way.

"Why don't you two come with us?" Mrs. Vance indicates Ziva and I. Gibbs gives us a look that's somewhere between a cry for help and a plea to save ourselves. I cannot see the boss being a double date person. This has to be killing him.

"I'd love to, uh, Mrs. Vance." I cough, hard. I'm trying to clear my throat. "But I just got an alarm on my cell about my cousin's daughter's baptism in Baltimore tonight. It's a good thing too, because I would have forgot."

"Well, Ziva, you can still come." The Director's wife turns to my partner. The Mossad Ninja's not quite as quick on her feet as I am when it comes to lying. Well, in English anyway.

"Actually she can't. I need Ziva to help me pick out a gift. You know me, boss, I suck at that kind of thing." I take a look at Gibbs' steely blues. There's actually a sparkle, the boss seems impressed.

"Good use of Rule 7, DiNozzo." He knows he can get away with this little cryptology in front of the others who have no idea what the hell he just said.

"Right." Callie eyes the two of us suspiciously. "You wanna get going?" She looks to Mrs. Vance who nods and they guide their respective men out of the building. I inhale sharply; I can't believe I might get away with this. At the last second, Gibbs looks back over his right shoulder and just smiles before shaking his head. The door swings open and the four of them disappear behind the door. I exhale heavily.

"That was a marvelous bit of lying, Tony." Ziva playfully whacks my back and I turn around to face her.

"Some of us are born with a gift, others inherit it." I josh as I turn around face her with a sly grin.

"And which are you?" She does that cute little pucker with her lips.

"I'll let you figure it out." I move past her toward the security check. I feel her hand dart out, catch my forearm and turn me around to face her.

"We should get out of here." She says. "It is a Friday night, we have gotten out of a painful dinner with the Director…we should…"

"Get hammered." I joke.

"I was going to say talk." She crooks her head just that little bit, tucking her chin toward her opposite shoulder and mischief glinting out of her right eye. "But both are, I believe possible."

"I've got an idea, something that I haven't done since prep school." I grin. "It's an authentic American experience."

"Tony, you think gas is an authentic American experience." She laughs as we head out of the office. I'm trying to think what movie this is out of. I don't know that there is one like this. It's a little bit of _Almost Famous_, I can sense some potential for a chick flick moment but I'll risk it. There's a little Marlon Brando in _The Wild One_, a little James Dean in _Rebel Without a Cause_. But I'm a little old for that. Maybe I could get away with those comparisons if Brando had done a ten year reunion for that film.

Ziva and I hop in the car. "Is there no Jack Nicholson movie or Sean Connery movie that you could quote?"

"I thought you hated it when I quoted movies?" I flip the key and the engine turns on.

"I do, but I have come to expect it." I back the car out of the parking space and head for the exit from the Navy Yard.

It's a few hours later, the sun has set on DC. The car is parked on the top floor of a parking garage across the street from my apartment building. I've got the car on, the radio up loud and the window on the driver's side rolled down. Ziva and I are lying down on the hood of the car, passing a bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth. "So, you were really digging the Dunham earlier, huh?"

"I did not wish to bury him, Tony." Ziva turns her face toward me for a second.

Okay, perhaps dig was a bad verb. "Not bury, Ziva, I mean you were in to him. Like, you were really in to him. It was the scruff, wasn't it?"

"There is, sometimes, something very sexy about a man with the right amount of facial hair." Ziva postulates aloud. There's a slow, uncomfortable silence that passes between the two of us for a second. "Have you ever considered…"

"A beard? Wouldn't work on me. Some guys can pull it off; get the whole Viggo Mortensen in Lord of the Rings thing. I'd probably end up looking like either an Italian Grizzly Adams or Stonewall Jackson." I shudder for comedic effect and she laughs.

"He was very hot in that movie, yes?" She's trying to get my goat.

"Stonewall Jackson?" I toy.

"Viggo Mortensen." She corrects me.

"If you're into that kind of thing." I shrug my shoulders.

"You cannot help but be a big brother." She laughs and turns on her side to face me. "You are hovering like a mother duck."

"It's hen. And no I'm not." I refute. I chuckle and try to think of something pithy to say to brush that off. She passes the bottle back to me. I take a drink and place it on the hood of the car between us. This is another one of those slow, burning silences. I reach into the breast pocket of my jacket a produce a cigar, just one I grabbed at a convenience store when we stopped for gas on the way over. I don't smoke. I never have and Ducky would probably kill me after the scarring the Y Pestis left on my lungs. But you don't inhale a cigar, not a good one; you just let the smoke linger in your mouth. Burn you like the oak sensations from a good whisky or glass of wine. I flip out a lighter and ignite the imported stick of tobacco.

"You are smoking now, Tony?" Ziva sounds both surprised, and maybe, just a little allured.

"After the week we've had? I think I've earned it." I say from around the cigar, wedged between my teeth.

"Agreed." Ziva nods slowly. There's another few seconds. I can hear the ticking clock in my head. Like Pacino in _88 Minutes_. Not a good movie but it was the only ticking clock reference that was coming to me. She reaches over and simply plucks the cigar from my teeth. Sliding it between her own, I watch she delicately curls her tongue around one end of the cigar, seductively drawing the smoke in, between those soft, small, pink cotton candy lips. It's taking all my will power to force down a coarse moan yearning to be dragged from my throat.

I'm saved by a familiar harmonica and piano introduction emanating from the car radio. I can't help but laugh and close my eyes. I love the image at the beginning of this song. It's so simple.

"What is funny, Tony?" Ziva has obviously noticed my little laugh.

"I was just thinking about the last time I did this." I joke and bring my right arm back so that my head is resting on my head.

"Smoking and drinking on the hood of a car at night?" She sounds confused.

"I was sixteen." I laugh again. "I was at prep school. A guy in the dorms, he wasn't like the rest of us. He was there on a scholarship. The guy was smart, he was a gifted athlete but he didn't come from any money. His dad was a mechanic in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. You have to understand, none of us could really empathize with this kid. You had blue-bloods who listened to opera and classical music or some of the other guys like me who loved jazz. But every morning, this kid would play this guy." I point at the radio. "To get ready for class. I never understood the music. I couldn't understand a lot of it, the themes and stuff. One night, he got a couple tickets for a concert up in Worcester, Mass. This would have been February of '88. So, I went with him, we got in his car and drove up. I figured I'd be a good friend and put up with it for a few hours. We played on the basketball team together. On the way home, the car broke down."

"That would happen to you." Ziva rolls her eyes. But I can tell she's hanging on every word.

"We'd snuck out after curfew, if any one had caught us, we'd have probably been kicked off the team or something. It was like two in the morning and we were coming home when the car quit. We got it off the road at some old gas station. Luke popped the hood and checked the engine to see what the problem was. He finds out it's a spark plug or something and calls Triple A, tells them what happened, what's wrong, where we are and to send a tow truck with the part because he can fix it." I shake my head just remembering it. "He comes back to the car, opens the hood, pulls the old part out and closes the hood. I look at him and ask him what we're gonna do until the truck gets here. He runs over to the trunk and pulls out a bottle of Jim Beam. We laid on that hood for an hour, passing the bottle back and forth, waiting for the truck to come. The whole time, Luke just kept singing this song." I point over my shoulder at the radio again. "This was the first song from the concert I ever really came to like."

"Why?" She asks, she's smiling. Maybe this is what she meant when she said she wanted me to talk to her.

"Because the opening is so cinematic." I tell her with a grin of my own. "The screen door slams. Mary's dress waves. They're like stage directions from an old John Ford movie. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays. Come on, you can see the whole scene. Every fan of this song that I've ever met, pictures Mary a different way, too."

"For you she is some gunshell blonde, yes?" Ziva chirps.

"It's bombshell." I laugh. "And no. She's tall but not too tall. Probably between five-six and five-eight. With long willowy dark hair that gets pushed around a little to easily by the wind. She's thin, but not scarily so. Just like she was a dancer or a gymnast when she was younger, but she's long since forgotten those days. That dress? The one that's waving in the wind. Just a simple cotton thing, maybe white or baby blue."

"This is your dream girl, Tony?" She asks and for the first time in a long time, I can see Ziva's teeth when she's smiling.

"No, I shake my head. Just my Mary." I take the cigar back from her and comically raise both my eyebrows. The song ends.


	9. Power Down

There should be a rule. The power can never, EVER go out at NCIS Headquarters again. I'm not kidding. The McGoo was, well McGoo but without accessories. The boss was an all-star though. I'm not even sure that I could spell the word mimeograph, much less use one. Although, I do have to say, the lack of light pollution in the city did kind of make Washington warm up a little. Made the city a little slower, more human or European even. Not that I'm comparing Washington to Rome or Paris or even London. I don't think it's there. There's a pace to those cities, an openness even. Washington slowed down; not quite to that level but just enough that you didn't miss the electricity for a few minutes.

The distance from the Navy Yard to the bar isn't huge. This is a Friday ritual I've really come to appreciate, it's a way to relax, to chill out and get a handle on what's gone on over the last week. It's the cork you stick back in a wine bottle, the way you keep everything under control in spite of the temptation to let it slip through your fingers. But it was like the whole city gave up a little bit of control this week when the power went out.

I stride into the bar, sticking my index finger under the knot of my tie and giving it a yank. Then I undo the top button on my dress shirt. I see Ray behind the bar wiping out a tumbler and setting it back on to the rack. "Hey, Ray." I slide on to the red leather of the barstool.

"Tony, my man. How's it shakin', brother?" Ray leans over the bar, his red vest hanging open.

"I got to spout off a lot of seventies cop clichés at work. That was kinda fun." I shrug. "An Absolute Martini."

"On it." Ray taps the bar and reaches into the overhead racks for a cocktail glass.

"So, what the heck is up with this place?" I look around and emphasize the lack of lights or a digital cash register.

"Power went down this week, so we had to keep the place running with old debit and credit card systems and we had to get most of old stock moved out. The customers loved it, so for the rest of the month, the boss has decided to go with the whole black out strategy. Any electricity used has to be kept out of sight of the customers." Ray shook the martini.

"Cool." I stick out my lower lip to convey that I'm impressed.

"Even the instruments. No patch chords, no amplifiers, no microphones even. You really gotta be able to sing to fill this place without a microphone." Ray sets the cocktail glass down on the coaster.

"And Callie's where tonight?" I ask as I cradle the cocktail glass in my right hand.

"About to set up behind the piano. No other musicians tonight because you'd never be able to hear her over the bass and the horns." Ray shuffles along the tile over to the well in order to make a few drinks to send out to the dining room.

"Huh." I give a small nod and go back to my cocktail. I wonder if Gibbs knows that his girlfriend is singing tonight. I wonder if he even thinks of her in that kind of context. It's tough to think of Gibbs as a social being. It's not that he doesn't have that side; I think the boss just compartmentalizes his life very well. There isn't a lot that's allowed to cross the lines. Ducky and Director Shepard are the only two I can think of. Unless you want to count that little excursion earlier this year to Somalia as crossing the bounds from the professional into the personal. I think Gibbs would have to put anything involving the killing of terrorists into the professional column. Simply because I don't think anyone would like to think their personal life is consumed by the desire to kill someone else. Gibbs, in particular, would hate that.

I like the idea of the candles on the tables. Since you stopped being able to smoke in bars, there was no way of adding that kind of fog to the atmosphere. I'm not a smoker, that cigar with Ziva on the hood of my car notwithstanding. But I like the old Bogart movies, you know the ones. The well dressed man walks into the bar. There's a piano, some great music, the buzz of conversation, the airy clank of a glass hitting someone's teeth and then the fog of smoke, the one that hangs like a thunder cloud over everyone's head. It's great. It's like it makes the music more potent, like it carries each note, each soft caress of the piano keys just that little bit further. I mean, where would Rick's Café Americain be without Sam playing to a room full of smokers? Then again the principle crowds in that movie were the French and Nazis; I'm amazed Marlboro didn't have a factory on site.

"Double bourbon, neat." I hear a familiar gruff voice pipe up behind me and I look over my left shoulder.

"Sorry, boss, didn't see you there." I gulp down a little extra vodka and give my head a shake. You never see him coming, much less hear him, I gotta figure out where he buys his shoes.

"Got a brand?" Ray throws a bar towel over his shoulder and looks to Gibbs.

"Old Granddad." Gibbs answers simply and turns outward, leaning his elbows back on the bar.

"On it." Ray tapped the bar again and turned around to grab a tumbler and the bottle of Old Granddad.

"So, boss, what brings you down to the bar?" I'm trying to avoid asking him about his personal life. I've had the Gibbs glare burn holes in my forehead. It's an unpleasant experience. He gives me that sly grin that Gibbs is prone to once in a while when he feels closer to thirty-five than fifty-five. Kind of his way of reminding us that he's still a guy. He just gives me a look that says "you know damn well why I'm here". Then he wraps his fingers around his tumbler of bourbon and raises it to his lips. "Right, boss." I pause for a second. "I guess this place, like this, kind of reminds you of you basement, huh boss?"

"And why is that, DiNozzo?" Gibbs turns toward me slightly, a more no nonsense look on his face.

"Well, I just mean, you know there's not a lot electrical stuff on display in here tonight, boss, and you've only got the one outlet in your basement and…I should really shut up." I finish off my martini and slide the glass back across the granite of the bar.

"Getting smarter everyday." Gibbs laughs and both of our eyes train on the bar manager who walks to the side of the piano and lets out a high whistle to draw the attention of the crowd.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I want to thank you all for being here tonight." The bar manager starts in his slightly nasal tenor. "And I want to thank you for supporting our Blackout Fortnight as we're calling it. We're kind of hoping that you all are enjoying the ambience as much as we are. Tonight, we have our usual Sunday night act. Her contralto voice and jazz stylings on everyone from Tom Waits to Johnny Cash always seem to make the night go down a little easier. So, without further ado, California Jones." The bar manager steps aside and Callie steps in. She takes her place on the bench behind the piano and warms up her fingers by letting them dance over the ivories in a set of scales before leafing through the sheet music in front of her.

"I was trying to come up with something a little new for tonight. I think to compensate for the lack of a microphone." There's a little self deprecating giggle. That's gotta be a result of Gibbs. It seems contrary to the more brash, more brazen Callie that I'm more used to. But she's smiling; she glances over to where we are at the bar and lifts her right hand off the keys just long enough to give Gibbs a little wave. I swear to God, I just saw the boss blush. There's something odd going on here. Gibbs doesn't blush. The only time I've ever seen his cheeks get red is when he's pissed. "And I came across this one. Now, I've never seen it done only with the piano before and maybe it loses something when you take out the drums, but it's a good one."

She pauses and looks up. "I realize you guys probably just want me to sing. But I'm still trying to kill my nerves here, because this is a big song and I'm trying to screw up my courage. Anyway, the original piano work on this one was done by a guy whose got his name on some of the best piano work of the last thirty years and no one probably could tell you his name unless they were paying attention. His name's uh, his name's Roy Bittan and he's from Queens, just like yours truly. So, without further stalling, here it goes."

Her fingers dance over the ivories. I love nights like this. Where the piano draws the focus, it helps the candles create the fog. Shadows dance on the walls. It's got a little bit of _China Town_, it's got a little _Devil in a Blue Dress_, and it's really just a ball of energy looking for an outlet. She hits a hard crescendo on the keys before letting up a little as if she's going from a hard tap dance a la Gene Kelly into a delicate ballet right at the end. Then you hear her voice.

_And I would do anything for love_

_I'd run right into hell and back_

_I would do anything for love_

_I'd never lie to you and that's a fact_

_But I'll never forget the way you feel right now, oh no, no way_

_And I would do anything for love_

_But I won't do that, I won't do that_

_Anything for love, oh I would do anything for love_

_I would do anything for love_

_But I won't do that, oh I won't do that_

I'm not sure I'd recognize this version of the song but for the fact that I know the piano intro. It sounds stripped down; it lacks the wall of sound, operatic or rock operatic quality of the original.

_Some days it don't come easy, and some days it don't come hard_

_Some days it don't come at all, and these are the days that never end_

_Some nights you're breathing fire and some nights you're carved in ice_

_Some nights you're like nothing I've ever seen before or will again_

The piano might as well have been lit a flame in that verse. Her fingers and her voice are keeping different company. She's trying to electrify the crowd with the piano and as I look at Gibbs, she's succeeding. But she's trying to melt it with her voice, the microphone, if she'd had one, wouldn't have stood a chance tonight

_Maybe I'm crazy, but it's crazy and it's true_

_I know you can save me; no one else can save me now but you_

_As long as the planets are turning, as long as the stars are burning_

_As long as your dreams are coming true, you better believe it_

_That I would do anything for love, and I'll be there till the final act_

_I would do anything for love, and I'll take a vow and seal a pact_

_But I'll never forgive myself if we don't go all the way tonight_

_And I would do anything for love; oh I would do anything for love_

_Oh I would do anything for love, but I won't do that, no I won't do that_

Gibbs' looks as though the blush in his face is going to blow up his cheeks. I don't think I've ever seen the boss that bashful. I wonder if he's focused on the whole "go all the way" part? There's gotta be a bit of the old Marine left in there

_Some days I pray for silence, some days I pray for soul_

_Some days I just pray to the God of sex and drums and rock and roll_

_Some nights I lose the feeling and some night I lose control_

_Some night I just lose it all when I watch you dance and the thunder rolls_

_Then maybe I'm lonely, that's all I'm qualified to be_

_There's just one and only, one and only promise I can keep_

There's the feeling, the part that's at the heart of it all. The stir crazy. That little bit of love that gets under you skin and like a parasite, shorts the circuitry that connects your heart to the rational part of your brain. It's got you bouncing off the walls, it's chipping away at your sanity and it's enough to make you sure there's a God.

_As long as the wheels are turning, as long as the fires are burning_

_As long as your prayers are coming true, you better believe it_

_That I would do anything for love, and you know it's true and that's a fact_

_And I would do anything for love and there'd never be no turning back_

_But I'll never do it better than I do it with you, so long, so long_

_And I would do anything for love; oh I would do anything for love_

_I would do anything for love, but I won't do that, no I won't do that_

She's keeping her playing pretty stable, but her fingers have got to be starting to hurt. She's trying to compensate for the lack of accompaniment by strings, or horns or percussion or anything other than her piano by driving her fingers into the keys at a speed and ferocity that only the pistons on Gibbs' Charger can match.

_I would do anything for love, anything you've been dreaming of, but I won't do that_

_But I'll never stop dreaming of you every night of my life, no way_

_And I would do anything for love; oh I would do anything for love_

_I would do anything for love, but I won't do that, no I won't do that_

The piano breaks and trills for a second. Like she wants to catch her breath and she is, but you can see the shadows move on the edge of the light near the piano. I told you, the piano, the candles, the smoke, it plays tricks with you. Callie looks up and smiles. Then I see a familiar figure, at first she's just a wisp of dark hair and an olive coloured shoulder.

_Will you raise me up, will you help me down?_

_Will you get me right out of this godforsaken town?_

_Will you make it all a little less cold?_

_I can do that! I can do that!_

Callie has apparently asked Ziva to join her for the call and response duet part of the performance. I was wondering how she'd deal with this part of the song. Goddamn, Ziva looks gorgeous, her hair's pulled back into a kind of ponytail and it's styled and curled a bit at the tip. So, now Ziva's sitting on the edge of the bench, perpendicular to Callie, facing out toward the crowd.

_Will you hold me sacred, will you hold me tight?_

_Can you colourize my life, I'm so sick of black and white?_

_Can you make it all a little less cold?_

_I can do that! I can do that!_

I'm trying very hard not to stare at Ziva's lips. She caresses the words as they depart from her, almost like she's kissing them goodbye. That dress, that great, wonderful blue dress with the straps that meet up at the back of her neck and show off that glorious bare back. It's another one of these moments that's tempting a coarse moan from the back of my throat. Ray slides another vodka martini back across the bar. Just in time.

_Will you make me some magic with your own two hands?_

_Can you build an emerald city with these grains of sand?_

_Can you give me something I can take home?_

_I can do that! Oh, I can do that!_

I'm not sure that it's nice to comment on the peculiarity of the fact that it's two women making these vows to each other in this song. I actually think it's more odd that our rough and tumble Mossad ninja is playing the doting, insecure, high school girl part in this little dialogue. I don't even know what to make of the fact that she's playing it well.

_Will you cater to every fantasy I got?_

_Will you hose me down with holy water, if I get too hot?_

_Will you take me places I've never known?_

_I can do that! Oh, now I can do that!_

Ziva's getting up from the bench, she's gonna venture into the crowd. She's just gotta make sure she can hear Callie and that she continues to project her voice. But the Ninja's a pro, she'll remember. My heart starts to race. I don't know why that is. But at least I can blame my dry mouth on the dehydrating effect of the vodka. Her eyes lock on mine.

_After a while you'll forget everything_

_It was a brief interlude a midsummer night's fling_

_And you'll see that's time to move on_

_I won't do that! No, I won't do that!_

She's close now. Three feet. Maybe four. I don't think those big, dark eyes have moved off mine for a solid twenty seconds. And I know that part of the lyrics are coming up, I don't expect those eyes to shift soon.

_I know the territory, I've been around_

_It'll all turn to dust and we'll all fall down_

_And sooner or later you'll be screwin' around_

I want to leap in here. I want to add my voice. But Callie beats me to it.

_I won't do that! No, I won't do that!!_

_And I would do anything for love, yes I would do anything for love_

_And I would do anything for love, but I won't do that_

_No, I won't do…that. Oh, I won't do that._

The piano trills off. Just to end the song. The crowd launches to its feet. I've got to applaud. That was a hell of a thing. Gibbs sticks his finger and thumb between his lips and lets out a wolf whistle. The cheers slowly wind down and Callie's grinning. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Ziva David!" And the cheers roar back to full blast as the two of them give a bow.

I can't help but feel like that little musical dart was aimed right at me. When I first started coming to this wonderful watering hole, I asked myself, repeatedly, what did I do for love? I guess the answer is that I did anything for love. Just not that. 


	10. Child's Play

I'm sorry, but you knew the boss was gonna show up. Gibbs doesn't break his word, I don't know if it's a Marine thing or a result of being raised by Jackson Gibbs or what it is, but you knew that he wasn't gonna miss Thanksgiving at Ducky's. And when he says that he was late because he was going around trying to find some substitutes for dinner rolls, you believe him. Only Gibbs, and I do mean only Gibbs, with the boss' trademark common sense, would try to substitute crackers and whole load of other things for traditional Thanksgiving dinner rolls rather than just leave rolls off the table.

I probably didn't have to drink two glasses of wine at dinner but it's the holidays. Ducky can prepare a hell of a meal. Even Ziva's assistance with dinner couldn't ruin Ducky's bird. I kid of course; I've heard that the Ninja is actually a very good cook. I can cook…well, penne. Anything else I either burn or fail to adequately cook. After a couple glasses of wine, I'm on the verge of forgetting about Atlantic City. I don't know why I wanted to go anywhere for Thanksgiving. It seems kind of a stupid time of year to go away. I mean, did _Planes, Trains and Automobiles_ teach us nothing?

There's nothing mystical about Thanksgiving. It's a holiday built for family gossip. Think about it. Football games containing the same teams every year. And every family has that one father or uncle, you know the one. He wears a wool sweater and corduroy pants, he eats too many yams or too much turkey at dinner, stuffs his hand inside his waistband as the guys sit down to watch the game and pontificates on the Cowboys or the Lions. But you don't have that with this group. I was sure McGee would head home and spend some time with his family. I was kind of amazed to see him at Ducky's tonight. Abby, well she loves Ducky and Gibbs so much; I couldn't see her being anywhere else. With all that's gone on with Ziva this year, I couldn't see her comfortably sitting at another table. And me? Well, I don't like Atlantic City all that much anyway.

"Well, Ducky, you prepare a heck of a bird." McGee wipes his face with a napkin and gets cold looks from Abby and Ziva.

"How long were you waiting to make that pun, McGee?" Abby re-fills her glass as the pumpkin pie finishes its way around the table.

"Uh…buh, not that long." McGee stammers. Ziva and I share a knowing look. The lower half of her face hidden behind the wine glass. I grin and slide another forkful of dessert between my teeth. Even the boss seems to get a bit of a chuckle out of watching Abby get on McGee's case.

"And Probie, really, who uses the word 'heck' any more?" I jest, my mouth still half full.

"Tony, manners." Ziva reaches out and smacks me across the shoulder.

"You're not Gibbs." I rebut as she reels her arm back in.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs turns to face me. "Manners."

"Sorry, boss." I hang my head a bit and Ziva gets that little triumphant smile on her face. I can't help but smile. This is probably the most normal family Thanksgiving I've ever had. I don't know that I want to do a lot of analyzing here but maybe that's why I was so anxious to be anywhere but here for this holiday. I mean, Atlantic City and Vegas are destinations for desperately lonely single people to gather and try to find a little meaning in screwing each other's brains out for a weekend. I'm sorry if that was too deep. In college, we used to do crazy things for no other reason I think than the fact that we'd be able to call each other up in ten years and talk about the fun we had doing it.

This coming from the guy who decided to re-live Spring Break five years ago. Holy shit, was that really five years ago? See, this is why I hate the holidays. Pretty much all holidays. All they succeed in reminding you of is all the things that you think you're missing and all the time that's gone by. Time that's gone by? Why doesn't Sam just cue up the piano in my head? Sitting here, trying not to spill red wine on Ducky's table cloth, I can't help but think of the fact that I'm 37 years old. Life's supposed to mean something by now, isn't it? There's supposed to be something to it, some substantive thing you can hold on to. Damn, I hate the holidays.

"Well, I suppose the time has come to clean up." Ducky grabs a few plates but Ziva waves him off.

"Do not bother, Ducky, I will get them." She smiles quickly and grabs as much as she can get her hands on and does a delicate balancing act as she takes it all into the kitchen. I watch her move, the gently sway of her hips. The last pool of garnet wine disappears from the bottom of my glass and I launch out of my chair. Grabbing what's left of the plates on the table, I head for the kitchen.

"I'll help!" I call as I jog toward the kitchen. I set down a few plates and glasses on the counter next to the sink. I pop my head back through the door from the kitchen. "Hey Ducky, where's the dish rags and stuff?"

"The rags are in the drawer to the left of the sink. The detergent and towels are under the sink." Ducky smiles from his chair. He and Gibbs are into the whiskey now. Not sure that bodes well for the remainder of the evening. Though, if he goads McGee in to drinking the hard stuff, that could be worth seeing. I slide back along the tile of the kitchen, next to Ziva along the sink. I watch as the muscles in her back tense up. It takes me back to last week at the bar, as I watched the muscles in her back dance through the smoke as she sang along with the piano. I'm not sure I'm in love with Ziva, I think so but I'm not sure you can know until you're with a person. Before that, I think you're more or less in love with the idea of that person. Now, that having been said, after last week I'm in love with Ziva's back.

I'm a little tense. I don't know why. Ziva casts a cursory glance over her left shoulder; those delicate high lashes hang just a little low so that it looks like she isn't looking. "Would Atlantic City really have been that entertaining, Tony?" She starts washing the dishes after laying out a towel on the counter for the clean ones to dry on.

"Probably not." I answer with a shrug as I finish rinsing one dish and hand it to her to be scrubbed.

"Then why do you seem so breastfallen?" Ziva stares down into the sink. She's trying to avoid looking into my eyes.

"I think the word you're looking for is crestfallen. Breast fallen is what happens to women of a certain age." I joke defensively and wait for Ziva to throw bubbles at my head. But they never come. Instead she gives her head a little shake.

"I do not think that is the point, Tony." She scrubs the dish a little harder. "Why were you so intent upon not spending Thanksgiving here?"

She's pushing me now. "As I recall this wasn't your first choice either." I retort, trying to justify my position and hopefully get us away from this topic.

"I would have come anyway once I was invited. These people are important. You seemed actively intent upon going to Atlantic City for the weekend." She just keeps right on pushing.

"I just…" I stop and brace myself on the counter.

"You what, Tony?" Her voice softens.

"When I was at Ohio State…" I can't believe I'm gonna go here. "Me and the frat brothers, we'd go have fun. Ya know, we'd just take off for a few days and go somewhere that was supposed to be a lot of fun. Like Panama City for Spring Break or Atlantic City over New Year's or one year we went to Chicago for St. Patrick's Day. I remember in senior year, the boys wanted to go to Montreal over Christmas. I had a late exam, so they went up ahead of me. Got this great hotel. I took a Greyhound from Columbus to Detroit."

"You went on a dog, Tony?" She looks very confused.

"It's a bus, Ziva." I chuckle. "Anyway, I took train from Detroit to Montreal, that's like a fifteen hour train ride. And on the way, I met this cute Canadian girl and…you know, you talk and stuff." I look out the window behind the sink into the night. "I guess, I just kind of missed that spontaneity." I take a very quick look over my shoulder. Just long enough to notice that her features have softened and her lower lip is even protruding a bit. But I'm not sure if that's sympathy or that she's impressed.

There's a heavy hanging silence for a few minutes or seconds, I'm not sure. I can't believe I just tried the whole vulnerable act on Ziva. I hate it when guys do that. For a second, Ziva looks resolved "We will go." She nods affirmingly.

"What?" I shake my head as we continue cleaning the dishes.

"We will re-visit Montreal, you and me." She smiles at me.

"Why?" I'm stunned.

"I have only ever been there once, and on business. It was a plane, a hotel room and then a plane again. You had fun, you wish to return. I wish to go and have fun. I hear Canada is very seasonal at the holidays." She shrugs a little when she uses the word seasonal, like she had to search her vocabulary for that one.

"You want to go on a trip with me at Christmas time?" I nod as I try to comprehend that. "Why?" I ask again.

"Is it really that odd that we should spend time together, Tony?" Ziva's hands lock in on her hips.

"Time? No. Four days in Montreal? Yeah, that's a little weird." I nod enthusiastically as if to emphasize my point. "Why do you really want to go?"

"I wish to spend time with you. We are friends, friends take vacations together." She protests. Okay, there she has a point.

I sigh. I'm not winning this one. "I'll make the reservations. Train and hotel."

"Train? Why would we not drive?" Ziva folds her arms in front of her chest.

"In order to make it in one day, we'd have to trade off driving shifts, part of which would be through the Adirondacks in upstate New York. It will probably be snowing and you drive like a maniac when the roads are level and it's sunny outside. We'd end up stranded on the side of the road somewhere in Northern Vermont." I counter and Ziva tosses me a glare.

"Fine." She states simply. "It should be fun, no?"

I want to make a sarcastic remark here but Ziva's actually smiling. She's actually looking forward to this. "You have a green card, right?"

"Yes, Tony. If we are going to travel across an international border, I will carry the proper identification papers." She rolls her eyes at me and settles back into cleaning the dishes. We exchange a few quick looks at each other. Neither of us says a word. Then I slowly creep my hand across the counter toward her. She sees it but I don't think she knows what's coming next. In a second, my hand dips down into the sink, grabs some bubbles and flicks them into her face.

Her mouth hangs open in surprise and maybe a little bit in flirtation. She gets a look of mock determination on her face and reaches down and grabs a hand full of bubbles all her own. She tosses them at me and I just have to smile. I reach down and grab another handful when the door to the kitchen swings open.

"Anthony, Ziva, I wish to thank you for cleaning up and…oh my." Ducky looks up and sees the two of us standing there with faces full of dish soap bubbles and hands at the ready to toss more at each other. "I trust the two of you will clean this up as well?" Ducky deadpans.

"Yes, Ducky." Ziva answers.

"Of course." I say simultaneously.

"Alright, well. Happy Thanksgiving." Ducky smiles and shuffles back through the door. I look at Ziva and try not to laugh. I raise my right hand and brush the bubbles off her nose. Then I think about having to spend vacation time with her. Looking back on her little performance at the bar last week, I allow myself a quick laugh. It might start out as _I'd Do Anything for Love_ but knowing me and Ziva, there's a pretty good chance it would end up more along the lines of _Paradise by the Dashboard Light._


End file.
